Where Blood and Fire
by Distance
Summary: We are what we are, no matter how much we deny it. The fate of mutantkind lies in the safety of one special child and the X-Men will stop at nothing to protect her, but some don't think they're qualified for the job. A retelling of the Messiah CompleX
1. Only the Martyrs

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything. Not even a nice pair of shoes.

A/N - A note about AU-ness:

This story will diverge from cannon somewhere between BoA and Messiah CompleX. Often times, this story will completely ignore events in Messiah. I personally didn't think Marvel did a stellar job finishing a story with a pretty intriguing beginning – though I'm not promising I'll do a better job. Also, in regard to some characters which Marvel is notorious for neglecting, even after they build them up to be integral (ahem… Gambit) – I will be reworking some of the event between BoA and Messiah, but if it isn't expressly mentioned, assume it's cannon.

Also, I'd already written a lot for this, even if it was never posted. The slight change in timeline might make some of these things AU, but for the most part anything important I'll fix, anything minor hopefully you either won't notice or you'll take with a grain of salt. Hey, if it's AU anyway, right?

A/N #2:

I'm totally reworking this baby. Even though before today, only two chapters and a prolog have been posted, if you've read those, read them again. This biggest change to look out for is that this went from post- to pre/during Messiah Complex.

Please please please review. Non-reviewed chapters keep me up at night. Then I don't sleep and I do a crappy job at work, and then my boss will have to hunt you down, and no one wants that. Right?

**Prologue**: _"Only the Martyrs"_

"_Please, not now… Mom."_

Scott Summers awoke with a start, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His mind instantly registered pain before it could figure out what the source was. Then, almost instinctively, he tightly shut his eyes as he removed his protective glasses. They were hot as coals. It took every ounce of tolerance he had to not throw them out of his singed fingers.

The amount of movement and the string of mental curses managed to rouse his slumbering partner. Her first tired - very upset at being woken up - instinct was to simply mentally soothe him back to a peaceful slumber, but she resisted. Their marriage had hit a few bumps recently and she knew how sensitive her husband had become to undue mental probing. "What's wrong?"

His eyes shut tighter as he replaced the now cool glasses back onto his face. "I don't know, Emma. I… lost control of my optic blasts in my sleep. I think they were going to break right through my glasses."

The White Queen's hand snaked up his bare chest until her palm gently found his cheek. Scott relished in the comfort and allowed himself to slip back down into the comfort of his mattress and his wife's loving touch. His skin tingled with a strange sort of ease as the soft skin of his wife's face came to rest on his chest. Emma craned her neck to look up at her husband's face, genuine concern behind her eyes. "I thought we had fixed all that."

"I thought we had, too."

Fatigue won over Scott's concerns as he pushed thoughts of his erratic powers to the back of his mind, allowing his eyes to peacefully close once again behind his ruby shades. Emma Frost, former White Queen of the Hellfire Club, current Headmistress of the School for Gifted Youngsters, was an opportunist. With Scott on the far edges of slumber with strange thoughts already intruding on his mind, he wouldn't even notice her psychic presence. The opening was not missed on the skilled telepath.

Upon entering his mind, Emma was instantly confronted by feelings of fear and confusion. He was not playing dumb or avoiding her implied question – he genuinely didn't know what had caused his optic problem, not even on a subconscious level. As much as his honesty reassured her, the mind of a master tactician and strategist, the mind of the leader of the X-Men, having no idea what psyche disturbance caused his newly found and near flawless control over his mutation to wane was far from comforting. It was then that her mental vision was flooded with shades of red, yellow, gold. Fire.

"Apparently not, honey."


	2. I Lay Sleepless in My Grave

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything Marvel related. I also didn't write that bit about New Orleans. Spin Magazine did.

**Chapter 1:** "I Lay Sleepless in My Grave"

_So far only 13 have been confirmed dead, but the non fatal casualties number in the hundreds following the mysterious explosion at this undisclosed facility within the now defunct Camp Hammond here in Stamford. These numbers are still climbing as emergency crews continue evacuations…_

Her eyes snapped into focus.

Television above her, mounted in the corner of the room. White walls. White sheets. Unflattering blue and white gown. She was in a hospital.

Her eyes had focused, not opened. They weren't closed. That meant she wasn't asleep. Merely distracted, or something worse? Comatose? She couldn't remember, though I do suppose that's one of the side effects of a coma, she ruefully thought to herself. She lifted her sheet tenuously as she examined herself. She didn't look emaciated. No coma. Actually, she didn't really look injured at all. What was she doing here?

Camp Hammond, former S.H.I.E.L.D. training center for the Superhuman Armed Forces, has recently been reopened for investigations by H.A.M.M.E.R. director Norman Osborn. Osborn, with the support of the federal government behind him, feels that disbanding S.H.I.E.L.D. is not enough. He has been quoted as saying that, "they were disbanded for a reason." Under these motivations, Osborn feels it would be –

"Now, now, Miss. You've had a rough enough day as it is involving all of that. No need to relive it right now while you're still trying to get your bearings."

She had been so drawn into the news report that she hadn't noticed the older lady dressed in nurse's garb enter her room and take the remote from her nightstand. With the television off, the woman bustled aimlessly around the room. At least it seemed aimless, her mind elsewhere. By the time the nurse got around to rattling off some check list she found on the patient's chart, her mind was a million miles away again… literally.

"Miss. Miss!"

Her eyes snapped into focus again. How long had her mind been elsewhere? This just wasn't right. And she still wasn't entirely sure where she was yet.

"Thought I lost you there for a second. Well, medically you seem to be fine. No injuries, at least none that would keep you holed up here any longer. I'll go ahead and draft up your discharge papers, Miss…?"

Her eyes wandered to the window. One thing about certain holes existing in your recent memory was that they tended to limit your preoccupations. Those holes let you focus on the here and now, like the sunshine and bright green grass of the hospital's courtyard. She'd nearly forgotten how beautiful Earth was.

"Grey. Rachel Grey."

* * *

_No._

_Not yet._

_Too early._

_Always too early._

_We aren't ready yet._

No, we're not.

We aren't strong enough yet.

No, we're not.

_They aren't ready for us yet._

_They can't sustain us yet._

No, they can't.

These are not my plans.

_This is not my will._

_This time, we won't go._

Yes, we will.

* * *

_"If werewolves controlled the House and vampires ruled the Senate, New Orleans would be our nation's capital. It is a city without conscience. The bars never close. You can drink on the street. Everything smells like a combination of puke, donkeys, shrimp scampi, Victoria's Secret, and lawlessness. Citizens walk the alleys and boulevards with human skulls nestled under their arms. The air on Bourbon Street is 21 percent oxygen and 26 percent sex. You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a stripper who's also a prostitute (and I'm 99 percent certain you can buy a dead cat here, if you're so inclined). There are people who move to New Orleans in order to die? Those people know what they're doing…"_

Remy had read that somewhere once. It was a mystery to him why the quote popped into his head, but it seemed appallingly appropriate tonight. Yes, LeBeau knew what he was doing, but was he really here in order to die? The entire idea of death had taken an interesting shift of definition in his mind as of late and such shifts brought along changes in his view of life. Maybe that's why he was really here, thinking the thoughts of an outsider inside his own home. Remy's life had begun in New Orleans, but something in him had always latched on to the idea that his real life would begin outside the confines of his home – outside of the confines of the guild – only to be confirmed in his mind with his expulsion. He thought he'd find his life out there, but all he managed to find was trouble. He never had a place in the outside world. He never had a purpose past survival. He never had a family.

No, Remy LeBeau was not here to die, but that's not to say that death wasn't involved in this homecoming.

* * *

_Hank._

Henry McCoy casually lifted his gaze from his late night research that had seemed to take over his lab as of late. He had long ago grown used to Charles Xavier's mental summons. In recent months, he had come to not only expect, but enjoy the evening conversations that the Professor felt the need to strike up with him. Cyclops' newly declared leadership of the X-Men had quite a polarizing effect. The battle-ready field teams had adapted rather quickly and, it seems, have come to prefer some of Scott's methods over those of the Professor. On the other had, the more research oriented aspects, especial Hank himself, were very disconcerted with the direction things seemed to be headed. But, alas, 'tis an issue for another day. _I'm in the lab, Charles._

_I need your assistance at Cerebra._

Beast looked back down at the blood sample in front of him. "Strain 88" was something that greatly intrigued Dr. McCoy, not to mention the added bonus of a welcomed distraction from the greater issue at hand – mutant procreation, or rather, the lack thereof. Hand in hand with figuring out how to continue the mutant lineage comes stopping those threats that wish to end mutant lives. _I must admit, Professor, I am up to my rather furry elbows in a project of significant importance…_

_Of course, Hank. I would expect nothing less, but I do feel this may take precedence. Please, come to Cerebra immediately. You'll be rather interested…_


	3. The Rising End

DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of this.

**Chapter 2**: _"The Rising End"_

The sun had begun to touch the horizon on this very frustrating day in the life of Scott Summers. For those who have been living under a rock for the past 24 hours, Camp Hammond, former base of operations for Tony Stark's Fifty State Initiative, was attacked. Of course, no newscaster or politician has had the gall to come out and say it was an attack, instead opting to use terms like "explosion" or "mysterious malfunction," but anyone who has been involved in this type of incident before could see attack written all over this. So far every identified body has been a human – Homo Sapien. Even if it was definitively an accident, if that accident happened to involve a mutant, there would be trouble. The X-Men were too caught up in dealing with the fall out of M-Day to get mixed up in the Superhero War and Scott had thanked his lucky stars for the free pass, but he didn't think he would be so lucky this time around.

He took a moment to survey his office. The majority of the active member of the X-Teams who were not currently in the field had crammed themselves into what used to be Scott's personal space. This impromptu meeting had not been on his daily agenda, otherwise he would've gladly had this moved to the War Room. Unfortunately, the numbers seemed to just pile up outside his door. Times like these were when he missed having the Professor to pass this responsibility on to.

After the Civil War scare, the younger members of the teams were on edge to begin with – any "accident" of this magnitude would set them off – let alone something this politically charged. The more experienced veterans of the X-Men were more than likely concerned for the same reason he was. Camp Hammond had become S.H.I.E.L.D.'s main base of operations towards their last days. It didn't take a tactical genius to guess that the mutant policing organization likely held quite a bit of privileged information in the facility. S.H.I.E.L.D. and the X-Men weren't exactly allies by any stretch of the imagination, but Fury and his crew had time and time again proved to Scott that they wouldn't meddle unless necessary. Osborn? It was anyone's guess the level of damage he could deal to the mutant community with the information he could glean from an exhaustive search of the facility.

Unfortunately, until he had more information to work with Scott's hands were tied. The X-Teams numbers were stretched pretty thin as it was, now was not the time for a wild goose chase. This didn't seem to stop people from voicing their opinion. Scott's recent commandeering of the X-Men had gone rather smoothly, but his rule, apparently, didn't inspire the usual silent cooperation that Charles' had.

The well timed phone call combined with the fact that no one else seemed to hear the ringing other than himself was almost enough to convince Scott in the idea of a just and righteous God.

"Scott Summers… Rachel? Wait… what's going on? - - You're in Connecticut? What – No, no, of course it's no trouble. I'll have a jet prepped and on your way ASAP."

Scott's luck in stealth ran out when the conversation ended. The angry bickering had slowly turned into quieted murmurs that soon gave way to silence. By the time the handset was returned to its receiver, every eye was on him.

Emma Frost sat on his wide desk, concern etched on her features. "Scott, what's wrong?"

A long, audible sigh escaped his lips before he found the patience to answer. "It's Rachel."

"She _called_ you? On a telephone?" Bobby Drake asked incredulously, the shock in his voice mirror that on the faces of his cohorts. He eyed his leader with confusion. "Must have a damn good long distance plan in the Shi'Ar Empire these days."

Scott's fingers had found their way to his temples by the time Bobby was done. He made a note to have Emma go in and block the pain of this ever increasing migraine. "She's in Connecticut."

Babby's mind quickly made the connections and he had to make considerable effort to not stare, mouth agape. "She isn't part of–"

"She was at Camp Hammond." Summers stood as he spoke, effectively cutting off further questions that he wasn't quite ready to ask yet, let alone answer. "And before anyone asks, that's all I know. Bobby, prep Blackbird I. Take Colossus and Hepzibah with you. She says she's safe, but the situation out there still seems volatile so be prepared for anything."

"Not gonna greet your little girl, Slim?" Logan eyed Scott carefully, finding his aloofness regarding the return of his own kid somewhat unsettling.

One aspect of his new leadership that Scott himself hated was his distance from the field. If he didn't _need_ to be away from the mansion, he knew he shouldn't be. He knew it, but it didn't mean he liked it. "We all know the situation in Stamford is still very volatile. I don't know if this is an X-Men issue or not, but as soon as I find out I want to be here at the helm."

It was at this moment, feeling far too similar to the man for his own comfort, that Scott noticed Charles' absence from the room. Of course it wasn't an official meeting that the Professor should have attended, but with the swirling emotions taking place in the room, it was oddly suspicious.

The stress of the whole situation let the guard he had been keeping against his wife down. A hand feel on his shoulder as she called out to him telepathically. _Beast isn't here, either._

Scott new the two met frequently, often times about Hanks experiments, Charles' complaints or other things on a long list of Things-I'm-Too-Busy-To-Worry-About-Right-Now. Scott new a list like that shouldn't exist, never would have existed for Charles, but that's just the way things are now. _The way things have to be._ Emma's grip tightened fractionally in support of her love.

* * *

A graveyard – how nauseatingly fitting that a man so familiar with death would come here for the first step towards renewed life… renewed purpose. For as long as Remy could remember, his life purpose was to avoid the gaping maw of the grave that seemed to chase him since birth. The Prince of Thieves considered Death an easy mark for a good cheat.

At this, he actually laughed out loud.

His eyes had no problem reading the engravings etched upon the scattered mix of granite and marble slabs in the darkened New Orleans night. Some were faded beyond recognition, exposed to the harsh Bayou for longer than he had been on the earth. Most of the names that were still visible were names he recognized – names of people he grew up with – names of people the child that had once shared his name had loved. One grave was still fresh. _"Bill Krimpton."_ That was the grave he came here for.

"A graveyard in New Orleans? Never pegged you for the cryptic and over dramatic type, Gambit."

Remy felt the heat at his back long before he heard Shiro approach. The night seemed all the darker after his old comrade had landed, his flames extinguishing.

"You tol' me once dat you 'n I, we was somethin' new. 'Something Ot'er,' you said."

"Yes, and that we belong together." Shiro closed the gap between himself and the master thief with a few long strides. His hand reached forward, landing on Remy's shoulder, as he did his best to trace the man's line of sight. "I still believe it. Even with the Marauders, you know we are set apart from the rest."

A small part of the former X-Man cringed with that. Set apart, inside the Merauders. Sinister's special interest. It was a daily struggle under the scientist's command to push their mutual past to the back of his mind. _No. This isn't the tunnels. This will never be the tunnels._

The silence stretched on comfortably for a few minutes before Remy's thoughts finally coalesced. "I neve' believed y'd answer when I asked y' wha' we supposed t'do. I should'n'a thought dat y'd know when we were bot' so fresh."

"I didn't know, but I knew there was something. We were different. We _are_ different. Something new. Something other. Something _greater_."

Sunfire allowed his feet to carry him further into the graveyard. His eyes scanned as Remy's had, but they did not search. He saw nothing. He felt nothing. He could not deny the changes Apocalypse had put him though, turning him into Famine. He had managed to break the surface level brainwashing Apocalypse had administered upon his transformation, an as much as he hated to admit it, Sinister had done an admirable job eradicating the mental triggers that were rooted deeper. He may fully be Sunfire again, but Famine would never be fully removed from Shiro. It was a daily battle to repress those urges that had been implanted into him – the great emptiness that was now a part of him. But there was an odd peace about this place, surrounded by death. There was no life. There was no hunger. There was no temptation. "I, too, thought Sinister may have been the answer. We were wrong, but that does not mean our journey has ended."

LeBeau could barely repress the smile that tugged at his lips. So different as men, so uniform as this "something else" that they had become. "I knew Sinister w' be a dead end. De man only be de mark, non de prize."

Sunfire's brows perked with interest. Remy could feel Shiro's eyes trained intently on his back. "Int'rested in pullin' off a lil' pinch?"

Their lips broke into wide smiles almost simultaneously. "I am standing here, aren't I, brother?" As he spoke, Shiro let his body go up in flame, dark smoke exuding from the blaze that gave the hint of a visage of a skeleton. He still wore his Famine mask proudly.

"One o' de corpses here be an ol' friend."

Shiro heard a quiet rustle, followed by the image of a shovel flying through the air towards him. His flames extinguished quickly as his hand wrapped around the wooden handle. He looked up to see his friend standing, his foot propped on his own spade that had been stuck into the dirt of the grave Remy had been examining so closely.

"I'd like t' say _bon jour_."


	4. Where I Lay My Head

A/N: If you're an old reader and haven't already noticed, I've done a rewrite. There are a decent amount of things that have been changed, and you may find yourself a little lost if you don't re-read, but I'm sure you'll be able to manage either way. And so: thus ends the re-write. Another little side note: I think I've finally hit my stride with this story. Hopefully the chapters will be a little longer from here on out

**Chapter 3**

"Oh my stars and garters…" Hank identified the fact that his mouth was moving and words were most likely emanating there from, but his brain couldn't register what they were. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he also acknowledged that Charles was responding, but this eluded him as well. There were a lot of things that suddenly couldn't penetrate the barrier of his consciousness. Everything in life suddenly seemed so trivial. All his research for the past year, he realized, had suddenly become obsolete. With one tiny blip, Cerebra had rendered his entire life as a scientist obsolete. Nature had once again proven the toils of a laboratory useless and void.

"Hank." Charles' hand, equipped with slightly trembling fingers, grasped on the fur of Beast's forearm was what finally stirred him. "Hank, are you alright?"

"Yes, Professor. Excuse me. I was just taken aback."

A knowing smile played on Charles' features. "Yes. It took me nearly an hour to shake myself out of my daze enough to contact you. It's certainly is something to behold, isn't it?"

"My dear professor, I believe that has to be the understatement of the century." Beast's feet moved for the first time since the magnificent stupor had commandeered his motor functions. He padded slowly towards the display, a simple digital rendering of the globe, so he could peer closer as if better sight would make this make sense. "It's more that just _something_, Charles. It's everything. It's… It's…"

"It's beautiful."

"Precisely."

"Hank, what I'm about to ask you is…" Charles' words trailed off, unsure of how to continue. He looked back up as his former student who had become a trusted friend. A soft whir of air filled the empty silence as his hoverchair turned to face Hank. "Well, it may put you in an uncomfortable position." He finally managed to illicit a reaction from his furry colleague – a sharp quirk of blue eyebrows, almost lost amidst an equally blue face. "I am asking as Charles – an old man confined to a wheelchair – not as Professor Xavier, leader – _former_ – leader of the X-Men. There is no pretense, there is no command, do with it as you will."

Hank couldn't quite find it in him to voice a question as he waited for Charles to finish. He felt a sudden need to brace himself for what Charles would ask. Truth be told, he had no inkling of what that might be, but in moments like this everything seemed far too heavy to bear without preparation. "Yes, Charles?"

"I wonder if you wouldn't mind leaving the mansion for a while to do some field research regarding this."

"The X-Club?" Hanks' features lit. Any chance to be surrounded by some of the brightest minds in the world was one the Beast would jump at – a chance to catch up on the scientific happens he felt so removed from lately, run his ideas by them, maybe even work with them.

"Yes, Hank. And I must ask you to do so quietly. No X-Man must know – Scott included."

The light that had so quickly taken Hank faded. "Charles, you need no telepathic prowess to know my feelings regarding the manner in which the X-Men are being led, but certainly this is not something that must be dealt with in secrecy."

"I intend no such thing. I have my disagreements as well, but I have no intention of standing in the way of Cyclops' leadership." Charles looked back at the Cerebra display, his eyes unseeing. They were somewhere else completely – somewhere that seemed so long ago, so far away now. "Scott has always been my star pupil. Since the moment he stepped through my doors, I have trained him to take charge of the X-Men in my stead, and I feel he is perfectly capable of doing so."

There was a certain wistfulness when he spoke, barely covering the strange swirl of emotion that thoughts of Scott had inspired in him as of late. He was a father swelling with pride, watching his son grow into the man he always hoped he would be – only to be deflated to realize his son has no wish to continue his legacy. He suddenly felt his age catching up to him. His personal feelings about Scott, though, could hold no ground here – this was an impartial decision and must be regarded as such. "This, though, is not something I feel the X-Men are prepared to deal with properly at the moment – regardless of who commands them. This news needs to be broken with a certain measure of delicacy, but it also requires immediate action."

Hank's brow knit in consternation as he began to absently clean his spectacles. He weighed Charles' words with no lack of seriousness, but could not deny the relief that swept through him. His loyalty to the X-Men, regardless of leadership, had not waned, but there comes a time when loyalty must be weighed against good judgment. This course of action, it would seem, managed to appease both sides of Beast's ethical line. He was never a man to opt for the easy way out, but in this moment, he did not envy the Professor's position.

* * *

Remy felt the first tinge of guilt at desecrating the gravesite of someone who had fallen because of him when the corpse was exposed. The plotting, the late night meeting, the digging – they were all just the next steps in the process, but seeing the still rotting corpse of Quiet Bill seemed to hammer home the gravity of what they were embarking on.

Shiro couldn't help but be amused at the sudden change in his friend – from fervently tearing through earth at first with a shovel, then with his hands, to cautiously, delicately removing the battered and burnt body held within. It was a reverence he rarely beheld in his line of work, one he would never have expected from Gambit. "You still have yet to tell me who your 'friend' is."

"Say 'ello t' Quiet Bill." Gambit made a show of presenting the body. There was a mischievous glimmer in his eye. It was another sudden change. Shiro found himself almost expecting Gambit to wield the corpse like a puppet and make him bow. "Helped me out durin' a tight spot a while back. Died 'cause o' it."

Sunfire set himself ablaze to cast some light down the 6 foot hole. Gambit's enhanced vision may make it easy to operate in the dead of night, but not all were so lucky. "He looks fresh." Shiro set himself down next to his companion, careful not to scorch the body further as he examined it. "Very fresh."

"_Oui_, he is." Remy set the body carefully back down before rooting around the various pockets that lined the inside of his tattered duster. "We did dis."

"We?" Shiro made no attempt to hide his surprise to Gambit's words. He certainly didn't remember killing this man. Had Apocalypse's mental tampering effected his memory as well?

Gambit continued his search as if he hadn't heard the question. A cracked a victorious grin as he produced a test tube and a long cotton swab. It wasn't until he bent back down to continue his work with the body that he finally answered the question and all its unspoken counterparts that still hung in the air. "De Marauders. Riptide, I t'ink."

"What business do the Marauders have with this man? You say he is a friend, but you didn't stop his death?"

"I t'ink dat de point, 'Fire. Sinister wan' t' punish me – wan' t' _push_ me. Make sure dis t'ief no jus' playin' games comin' back t' him. He was _mon ami, _ dat de only reason he dead."

"And the sample? You wish to clone your old friend to make amends for his death?"

"_Non_. Dis Bill was from anot'er Earth. I'm hopin' dis one help us find de ot'er. If he can, we pray dey got de same power and dat one will be as helpful as dis one."

* * *

The sunrise from the Blackbird seemed unnaturally bright, so close to the sun. _So far from… home._ Rachel suppressed a derisive snort at the thought. A time traveling, alternate universe hopping, space traveling Starjammer shouldn't really consider any place home, but the Shi'ar Empire had grown on her, unexpectedly becoming the home she never realized she needed. Now to be so far away from the Empire, the war – Korvus – seemed almost unnatural.

Bobby had let Pete take over control of the Blackbird. The big Russian couldn't fly to save his Great Mother Russia's life, but the Shi'ar enhanced autopilot did all the work anyway. If it wasn't combat, you could literally fly this thing with your eyes closed. At first it was a welcomed break – 7:00 am Danger Room sessions were one thing, but 5:00 am flights to Stamford were pushing it. Not that he was asleep - not that anyone in the mansion was asleep after the middle of the night news break – but this was still way more activity than he was prepared for before coffee.

He stole a sidelong glance at Rachel. She _seemed_ normal enough – or as normal as someone who had inexplicably been transported halfway across the universe and dumped in the middle of a national crisis could be expected to seem. _Who the heck am I kidding? A Summers child visiting has never _once_ turned out to be normal._

Twiddling his finger could only keep him occupied for so long. He'd cave and ask eventually – why waste the time waiting? Plus, if he didn't do _something_ soon he'd succumb to the temptation of sleep that the gentle hum of the Blackbird's engines kept singing to him, and no one wanted to find out if Pete had a smooth landing hidden somewhere up his sleeve. "So…"

Rachel looked up at him with a start, startled out of her reverie. She looked studiously around the Blackbird before responding, as if only now realizing where she was. "So?"

"C'mon, Ray. You know what I'm going to ask?"

"I do?" Her response held barely repressed rage. It was then that Bobby noticed the tattoos encroaching on Rachel's features. He didn't exactly understand what a Hound was – he never cared much to spend his brainpower understanding alternate universes, that was Beast's job – but he knew they weren't fun, and Rachel was one of them. She suddenly seemed much more menacing than someone so young should.

Regardless, Iceman pressed on undeterred. "The topic of the hour, kiddo. How the heck did you get here?"

Her eyes left Bobby and traveled to Colossus' back. She had spent enough time as an X-Man, and as a daughter of Jean Grey, to know better. She of all people shouldn't be surprised. People around her came back from the dead – it was just a fact of life. At least an _attempt_ at an explanation would've been appreciated, though. After being removed from the business of the X-Men for so long, being thrust back into their reality so quickly was unnerving. "I think I should wait until I see Scott before I get into that."

Iceman's eyes rolled as he dramatically threw his hands into the air. "Oh, _c'mon._ Don't hit me with that official I-Need-To-Talk-To-The-Fearless-Leader business."

After a couple of minutes, Bobby gave up hope for a response. Rachel's focus had turned back to the sunrise that was now almost clear of the horizon. With a heavy sigh, he followed suit, hoping for a cancelled training session to make up for such an early morning.

"We were fighting Vulcan. Then I was in a hospital. The rest… I just don't know."

Bobby felt a barb of guilt jab at him as her tone turned somber. "Well, that's why we're here," he said with a forced over enthusiasm, trying to force her mind out of the mire she seemed to be stuck in. "You know this is all run of the mill material for us. Scott'll get you sorted out."

"Maybe you're right." _But I doubt it. Daddy's not prepared for this._


	5. Head of the Class

A/N: After writing this chapter, I've noticed something about what's going on here. I'm getting caught up on character development/expounding. I think stories tend to ignore the new relationship dynamics that have cropped up in Marvel in the past few years, and I may be getting carried away trying to explore them. I'm enjoying writing it, but I can see how you (all three of you – thanks, by the way) might not enjoy reading it. If no one minds, I'll keep going about my business (although this will likely make this a much longer story that comes with much slower updates) – but I can also cut to the chase. Your call.

A/N 2: Reading through this again right before I update, I've also noticed I tend to make some slightly obscure comic references. If it gets confusing, let me know and I'll try to spell them out a little more.

**Chapter 4: **Head of the Class

"Alright, X-Men." Scott's voice boomed over the gathered group crowding the War Room. It was a welcomed change – Scott in Cyclops mode commanded, led with clear cut authority – while Rachel's words, recounting the events she could remember surrounding her return to Earth, only deepened the trench of confusion they seemed to have been stuck in for the past 18 hours. "This could all be a coincidence, but as you all know, things like these rarely work out that well for us. I will assemble a team to investigate both the event at Camp Hammond and Rachel's return. Their charge will be to find a link, if there is any, between the two. For right now, hunches are all we have to go on, which isn't enough to put the X-Men in any kind of undue danger. I hate to say it, but we're still playing the waiting game, people. In the meantime, we've been distracted by this long enough as it is. I expect everyone to return to your normal duties. Dismissed."

He watched his X-Men disperse with a hint of pleasure. No arguing, no complaints – they were steadily becoming the well-oiled machine Scott had spent the past few months forging them into. He acknowledged his leadership style was vastly different from the Professor's and to be completely honest, he was worried about the shift in team dynamics it would cause. He gladly took the opportunity to officially take over, but he had no desire to merely fill Charles' shoes, mimicking the older man's methods. Scott was not delusional – he knew he had his flaws – but the team's recent increase in obedience in War Room meetings was something he considered a small victory.

"Rachel," Scott called after his estranged daughter as she headed for the door. With an internal curse at her bad luck – she thought she might skate through this one without a dreaded Summers heart-to-heart – she silently turned to consider her father. "Would you mind meeting me in the study when you get a chance."

Keeping her silence, Rachel merely nodded and continued on her way. Logan, on the other hand, made a bee-line for the leader of the X-Men. "Yer soundin' an awful lot like a military man, Slim."

"The last person I need to be having this conversation with is you, Wolverine."

"Wrong, bub. I'm the first." Logan punctuated his claim with a finger prodding Scott's sternum.

This is one of the areas he'd noticed his command seemed to fall short compared to that of the Professor. Where as the younger or less tactically minded members of the various X-Teams tended to keep their personal complaints to themselves in official meetings, the more experienced veterans of the teams challenged Scott far more often then they had Charles. It was something he expected – of all the adaptations the X-Men could handle in the field, change was not usually welcome at home. "And how do you figure that?"

"Yer gettin' a little rough around the edges."

"I would've assumed it's a welcomed change for you, Logan."

"On the field is one thing." He heat behind Logan's features died down some as his mind recalled his time working the sewers of Genosha with Scott – the first time he'd seen Scott bend his precious set of rules for the sake of a successful mission. "I was actually pretty happy when ya started the rough 'n tumble Summers on missions. But yer more than a field leader now, bub. Ya ain't just the muscle, yer the brains now, too. I've seen the road yer headed down, Cyke. Tread carefully."

* * *

"Scott." The Professor's voice caught Cyclops as he was heading back to the study. The soft sound of displaced air accompanied Charles' approaching figure.

"Yes, Professor?" As much as he longed to retreat to his quarters, Scott pause to allow the Professor to catch up. Charles had been noticeably absent from recent events and though Scott felt more than confident enough to handle things himself these days, it was still an interesting development.

"I know you're quite busy, but I wonder if you would accompany me outside for a moment?"

"Professor, I really have -"

Scott was cut off the Charles' forestalling hand. "I understand, but this is somewhat important."

Charles promptly turned his hover-chair in the opposite direction and began making his way towards the large sliding glass doors that lead to the mansion's backyard. Resisting a sigh of resignation, Scott followed. They continued on together in silence, each relishing in the quiet – Scott so he could finally take a break to gather his tumultuous thoughts, Charles so he could go over one more time how he would break the news to Scott.

Before either of them had done so consciously, they simultaneously came to a stop of a beautiful spring of cherry blossoms – something completely unnatural to Upstate New York. They were sustained solely by the meticulous care of their resident Wind-rider. "The gardens certainly have flourished with Ororo's return."

Scott didn't pretend to understand Storm's return. Honestly, he didn't really understand her departure. Her relationship with T'challa was strange, to say the least. He imagined that if he had tried a separation "to find himself" with either Emma or Jean, it wouldn't have been met with the understanding and support that Storm showed her husband. "It is good to have Storm back in the fold, Professor."

Storm was the breath of fresh air that the leadership of the X-Men needed. Rouge was still injured and MIA, her team obviously disbanded. Scott acknowledged and appreciated the strides Bobby had made with Emma's assistance towards truly mastering his mutant potential. Under the appropriate supervision, Scott was beginning to see the first buds of leadership growing within Bobby – but between Rogue's injury and Mystique's defection, the man's head was miles away lately. The members that were old enough to remember Emma's reign as the White Queen of the Hellfire Club still didn't trust her enough. Logan had flatly refused the offer when Scott had made it a few weeks ago. The pickings were slim.

Sensing the direction of Scott's thoughts, the Professor redirected the conversation. "Yes, her presence was dearly missed, but as much more than just a teammate." Charles gauged Scott's reaction out of the corner of his eye. The younger man had always been very pragmatically minded, oft ignoring the poetry of life in favor of the news reports. It was a struggle to even remember the last time Scott had taken time to just enjoy life at the mansion. Even his relationship with Emma tended to focus on their struggles instead of their successes. "Her attention to the grounds at the mansion, I feel, has always been important. As the proverb goes, we often see the forest and overlook the trees. It is very easy for the X-Men to get caught in the battle and forget what it is we're fighting for."

This was frustrating. At least Logan's earlier challenge of Scott's leadership had been direct. Now that he had taken up as headmaster, Cyclops found it hard to muster the patience for the Professor's often cryptic advise. "I think our fight has changed. We're fighting for survival now, Charles – not just equality."

Charles didn't need to be a telepath to hear the hidden message in his chosen X-Man's words. Our _fight_, not our _Dream_. But in times like these, aren't they one in the same? Scott's tenor as headmaster certainly seemed to suggest so, and Charles found it hard to disagree – but without the Dream, the Fight was meaningless. It was something the Professor feared that Scott was losing sight of.

"Equality is truly just a means to an ends, Scott. We fight for equality so that mutants can _enjoy_ their lives, the same as all humans should." Charles' wide spread hands indicated the flowers before them, but Scott could sense he was speaking of much more – of the world beyond the mansion walls. "Ororo's gardens have always served as my reminder of that. Amidst the turmoil, the bloodshed, there is still beauty to behold. _That_ is the Dream."

Scott turned from the garden to stare down at Charles, arms folded defiantly across his chest, features suddenly hard. "You said it yourself, Professor – I have a lot to deal with right now. As much as I appreciate Storm's pastime, I have work to do."

"Which is why I asked to speak to you here instead of in your quarters or the study. I have something to tell you, but I need to speak to Scott Summers, not Cyclops." The Professor let a long moment stretch before them. He could feel Scott's mind wrapping around his words and instantly resisting. He itched to give him a mental nudge – but those tendencies were how he found himself at odds with his former pupil these days to begin with, weren't they? With a sigh, he pressed on, hoping Scott would be wise enough to follow on his own. "I need to speak with the man – capable of appreciating victory's in terms of joy – not the soldier who evaluated them in terms of tactics. A child was born – a very important child, Scott."

Charles could see it on Scott's features that he hadn't quite grasped his words. Charles was still too afraid to vocalize too blatantly the thoughts - the hope - he found too fragile to trust language to preserve. It would be so easy to selfishly hold onto the knowledge – handle the situation himself, not trust his own X-Men, his own prized student. But that lack of trust, which Charles only recently came to realize existed, had already done too much damage. _He _must_ know_. "A _mutant_ child."

* * *

Scott was still working his way through Charles' words from earlier in the day. A mutant child. It was more than he had asked for. It was more than he had even hoped for It was... surreal. As time had gone on, Scott had slowly become convinced that Scarlet Witch had dealt mutant kind it's deathblow. To de-power over 99% of the mutant population was devastating, to say the least, but not enough to snuff out the fire of hope in Scott's heart. What was the killer was the slow realization that came over time – no new mutant births. If it was just a near genocide, that was a storm mutant kind could weather. Stand your ground and fight so that the next generation had a chance – that was the standard M.O. for the X-Men anyway. But there was no next generation – at least there wasn't in Scott's mind until today.

For any man, even a leader of Scott's steadfast resilience, it was a lot to take in. He was grateful for the distraction as Rachel entered the study, finally responding to Scott's beckon.

"You needed to see me, Cyclops?"

He didn't know if she did it on purpose, but using his code name hurt. Rachel seemed to insist on it since her return. They had not been on good terms since Jean's passing – even worse when his relationship with Emma began – but he had hoped. Maybe something along the lines of "dad" would be out of the question – and he honestly didn't know if he'd feel too comfortable with that anyway – but the pain was there nevertheless.

"Rachel," he regarded her warmly. He didn't want a battle of wills here, just an honest conversation. "I think you need to finish your story."

The question illicited an instant response. It was much harsher than he had hoped for. "What are you talking about?" Rachel's eyes narrowed fractionally. "I told you everything I can remember."

Scott had forgotten his daughter's angry streak, but he wouldn't be deterred. The need to know, for the sake of the team, far outweighed his desire to smooth things over with Rachel. "You're holding back." Scott rose from his seat from behind the large desk and walked around it to sit casually on it's corner. "I don't know what it is. I don't know if it even matters. But you don't know, either. Some… things have been happening here on Earth lately. If anything you have to tell may shed some light on that, it would be invaluable."

"So, what? You want to _compare notes_?" Rachel walked over to the leather bound, Victorian styled chair that welcomed guests to sit at Scott's much more modern desk. She had to fight to keep her nails from gouging its wooden frame. After a moment of collecting herself, she managed to look at Scoot again. "I hate to break it to you, _Cyclops_, but I'm much more concerned with saving _my_ home over yours. I just want to get back."

There it was again. _Cyclops._ This time her intent was clear, and more than hurt, Scott was beginning to get angry. "What if you're here for a reason, _Marvel Girl_? Maybe this isn't important to you, but maybe you helping us will get you back to the Shi'ar Empire. Maybe this will help solve your problems with Vulcan."

He knew he was walking a minefield with the mention of his estranged brother – Rachel's estranged uncle – and he had apparently made a misstep. Rachel's anger boiled over. "You don't know anything about my _problems_ with Vulcan."

Scott raised his hands defensively before him, hoping to placate the situation some. He mentally chided himself for instigating her. The organized leader he was, Cyclops had a list of things to do that might help make sense of the confusion that had become his life for the past day and a petty argument with his daughter wasn't on it. "You're right, Rachel. I don't know what you're struggles are, but that's the point."

He rose from his desk and closed the short distance between them, placing a tender hand on her shoulder as his shaded eyes zeroed in on hers. "We're all in a bind, here. Mutants across the Universe are suddenly becoming an endangered species. We've only got a few, miniscule pieces of the puzzle. We only stand a chance if we work together."

Countless retorts popped into Rachel's mind. Since when had "working together" ever been on Cyclops' list of strategies, unless it directly benefited the X-Men. Did this sense of togetherness enter his mind when he was cheating on her mother? How did refusing to pursue Vulcan work together towards mutant kind? He saved his beloved Professor and promptly returned home – when his own daughter and brother urged him to stay. Gabriel Summers was a Summers' problem, and this so called leader of the Summers family had washed his hands of the situation and returned to his precious X-Men.

And that's just what they were now, or so it seemed. _His_ X-Men. Not his and her mother's – not even Charles'. His. And maybe Emma's, too. She couldn't wait to get back out in space. _Her_ home. She couldn't wait to get back to the Starjammers. _Her_ team.

"I finally found some place that's _mine._"

Her words sounded suddenly deflated, to her own surprise. She had even meant to blurt out the personal admission. As she sunk solemnly into the chair she had previously attempt to strangle, concern built behind Scott's ruby glasses. As an X-Man, Marvel Girl's natural skill and the sheer power with which she could command the Phoenix Force was only overshadowed by her headstrong ways. It was easy to forget the motherless young woman disillusioned by the reality she found herself in. There was power in her words that gave Scott a piece of understanding as to who his daughter really was, why she distanced herself from the X-Men.

"Rachel, you know you'll always have a place here. You're family."

"That's the problem." A heavy sigh came from her lips that Scott felt somewhere in his soul. "I'm... displaced. Genetically, yeah. I'm family. But I'm not really _your_ daughter. Nathan's from the future, but he's from your future – the future of this reality. I'm... a stranger with your genetic code. At least with mom, there used to be the Phoenix."

_Oh God._ That was it, wasn't it? The dream last week that Emma had accidentally unlocked when she was rooting around in his head. He had made certain not to breach the subject with her, and Emma had made no indication that she knew that he now remembered it. He was afraid to – discussing a vision of his former wife with his current lover. But now – it wasn't about _Jean_, was it? "Used to?"

"Yeah..." With a little more seriousness in her tone, she turned to face her father. "Used to."

She couldn't bring herself to flat out say it – _the Phoenix Force left me and I don't know why_. Scott didn't need her to – he preferred she didn't. Mysterious changes with the Phoenix never ended well for anyone involved. "And do you think -?"

"That's why I'm here? Your guess is as good as mine, but it does seem like too much to be a coincidence." She could see the gears turning behind those ruby glasses of his. It was beyond surprise. He was making connections, strategies. Processing new information into the bigger picture. Rachel was afraid the Phoenix Force leaving her was more than just a case of bad luck and Scott's reaction seemed to be the confirmation of those fears. "Maybe it's time to share your piece of the puzzle now."


	6. Axe to Fall

A/N: I would like to take this opportunity to redirect you all to Spikey44's Gambit-centric epic, "The Devil's Own." If you haven't read it, you should. It's a lot better than this, and where I've been for the past couple of weeks. I've already read it a number of times and like to glance at it every now and again when I have writer's block. Unfortunately, my little remedy turned into a distraction rather quickly.

**Chapter 5: **_Axe to Fall_

It had taken Remy quite some time to shake Shiro. He appreciated the companionship he provided, and he couldn't deny the fact that he honestly didn't know if he'd still be alive today if it weren't for Sunfire's intervention on his last encounter with the X-Men – not to mention digging a fresh grave on a chilly fall night by his lonesome wasn't high on Remy's "to-do" list - but the boy sure could be clingy, _non? _The Cajun had spouted out a long list of duties – everything from visiting his poor, old _père_ to needing to get his kicks at a poker table before returning to all that mundane Marauder business – all fairly reasonable yet uninteresting to Shiro – before he could get some time to himself. That was 17 hours and 1404 miles ago. Times like these caused Gambit to curse his immaculate sense of style – a '49 B31 was a _très beau _bike, but not the world's most comfortable ride. Where was a Blackbird when a _homme_ needed it?

It was 8:47 PM and Remy was only another hour and a half from his destination. Far too early for a pinch, especially in a home as highly guarded as the one he targeted. He had decidedly refused to drink much on this trip – he needed to make time and unnecessary endeavors to the _peu chambre des garçons _would be less than beneficial. But now he had time to spare, legs to stretch and a bladder to empty. Besides, it was the last rest area before he hit his exit anyway.

Despite his posterior's pains of protest, Remy loved the road on modern day horse back. The excedingly high speeds caused his outgrown hair to whip and the wind to beat upon his face. What's a helmet, _homme_? The sensation was freeing, but much more than in the stereotypical biker sense. If one of those biker _mauviettes_ wanted a _real_ rush, just piss of sweet Rogue on the second story of the mansion – she'll take you for a ride you'll never forget. No – Remy didn't long to fly, or feel the wind for the sake of freedom – Remy was free because his bike outraced his thoughts, the wind ripped from him his errant doubts. It may have been another reason he had been putting off this pit-stop – stopping for too long let those pesky thoughts catch up, climb back into his ear and snuggle warmly with his brain.

LeBeau was headstrong, never really the doubting type. _Non_, Gambit would much rather charge forward and spend a lifetime regretting and atoning instead of bothering to doubt. Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow, _oui_? But this was different. Racing at break neck speeds towards the _last_ place on Earth he wanted to be with a sample of DNA stolen from a homeless man's corpse – who was killed by one of his buddies on his new "team" - that happened to be buried in his _père's_ backyard, contrary to popular belief, _wasn't_ on Remy's bucket-list. And of course, this was all just the tip of the iceberg, as the saying goes.

For not the first time in his life – not the first time this _week_ – Remy was forced to question his sanity.

He did crazy things on a regular basis, sure, but he would consider himself far from insane. Sometimes the crazy bets were the only ones with a worthwhile payoff – sometimes a professional gambler can't get his fix from the smart plays anymore. This game he'd been playing lately, though, was beyond a reckless bet – it was a guaranteed loss. You could only lose the chips you pushed into the middle. Didn't matter if you knew you had your opponent – he was just another mark and the game turned into a pinch. Remy was all in, but he knew he was beat.

He was pot committed, though, and had to take a loan out against the house to keep playing. Against Shiro. Against the X-Men. Against Apocalypse. Against Rogue...

She had been the first chip he had recklessly tossed into the middle of the table when his fingers closed around her throat, Death poisoning her lungs, all those months ago. He had played that hand blind – even in retrospect he couldn't be sure whether or not he had been bluffing. Yeah, Death had truly wanted her dead so Remy could be free of his last attachment to this world – but Death was Apocalypse's creation. The Horseman knew only as much about Remy as his master had – which wasn't much if his number one target had been Rogue. Not to say he didn't love the _fille_ – but love had never been Remy's main motivating emotion. But that doesn't negate the question begging to be asked – did _Remy_ want her dead – did he _let_ Death take control of him? Of course there was the easy way out - blame it on the mental conditioning he had gone through to become a Horseman - but Apocalypse was already dead when he attacked Rogue. Was it as simple as brainwashing, or was Death – suddenly without the input of it's Master - merely feeding off of Remy's subconscious desires?

_De Rogue 'n Gambit days're ove', but dat don' mean I want de femme dead._

As he shook off his recently washed hands, Remy couldn't suppress the laugh that angrily clawed it's way out of his gut. He was playing this whole _putain_ game blind, but he knew he wouldn't be the only one paying the price if he folded and, _merde_, he just didn't have it in him to check. Raise, _homme_, that's the only option – even if the game's fixed. _If you gon' go out, _homme_, take de whole _putain sans valuer_ worl' wit' you._

But then again - the one game Remy LeBeau was better at than cards was playing possum.

* * *

"Where is LeBeau?"

Scalphunter looked up from the dismantled automatic shotgun he had been cleaning to regard Sinister. He normally was one of the more well-behaved Marauders, but he couldn't help a derisive snort. "Cajun ain't my brother and I ain't his keeper."

In a flash of motion, John Grey Crow found himself in the air, held up by Sinister's firm grasp on the collar of his shirt, staring at the monster's razor sharp teeth. "He is your charge and therefore you _are_ his keeper."

As Sinister released him, Scalphunter ran a hand along the front of his body, straightening the creases in his clothing Sinister had created. "Not a job I volunteered for," he mumbled as he sat back down, attention seemingly turned to his mundane project.

Such a pitiful specimen Scalphunter was shaping up to be. A lifetime ago, Dr. Nathaniel Essex saw so much potential in the criminal – in those days, before the world at large knew of mutations, any man living through a military sanctioned firing squad was a man to take note of. In truth, the man had been a cornerstone in the change of direction Sinister had taken his operation. There was never a time in his life when Essex wasn't a scientific genius – he'd had experiments, subjects, tests – but Grey Crow had been his first _soldier_. In all honesty, though Scalphunter had ceased being his most useful asset when LeBeau had returned to him, the man was still his best man in the field. The other Marauders were _killers_, yes, but it would be a stretch to call them soldiers. Unfortunately, just as Scalphunter had changed Sinister's focus before, once the scientist got his newest pet up and functioning, Grey Crow would be as useless to him as Mueller had become. "Your willful cooperation is not required for the tasks I assign you."

"Of course, boss." Scalphunter considered his words wisely. The time he had spent working for Essex before the man's full decent into lunacy (although saying he was anything resembling _normal_ back then would be a bold faced lie) on occasion garnered Grey Crow enough clout to actually hold something resembling a conversation with Sinister – an event the scientist couldn't even fathom with the rest of the Marauders. "Maybe you should let LeBeau blow off some steam - the thief needs an outlet."

"I am not concerned with LeBeau's needs – his duties to _me_ are what he needs to be satisfying."

"Of course, but the prick does have a penchant for disappearing in the middle of the night. Seems a little too early to run him off for good yet." Grey Crow caught the dangerous glint in his master's eyes. Today was apparently not one of the days he could have a psuedo-reasonable conversation. Quickly, he backpedaled into a safely subservient line of thought. "Not that it'd make a real difference – life just may be a bit easier with him around for now."

With a soft exhale of derision, Sinister turned his attention from Scalphunter to the large plexiglass window that made the fourth wall of the observation room Grey Crow inhabited. Soundless strides carried Essex to the window, gazing down from his third-story view on a loose assembly of Marauders wheeling a large, stainless steel container towards a long corridor. "How is our new guest?"

Scalphunter repressed a shudder at the question. In all actuality, though, he shouldn't be surprised at Sinister referring to a stolen corpse as a guest. The man was slightly off kilter. "The body's stable and being transported to your labs as we speak, Sir."

* * *

The laptop taking center stage on the desk blinked silently, a message waiting. Charles was glad the mansion's computer network had been one of the responsibilities still left to him by Scott after his pupil's takeover of the teams. There were many things the Professor was willing to concede – control of the X-teams, leadership of the school, scheduling, training, and the list went on longer than Charles cared for – but some things were _his_, a fact of which he was glad he hadn't needed to remind Scott. This had been particularly useful with the recent destruction of Cerebra. Charles hadn't realized it at the time – too engrossed in the idea of a mutant baby to notice the change – but Cerebra was completely fried by the amount of energy the mutant birth gave off. To a certain extent, the computer was still functional – the Professor (with help via conference call to the X-Club) managed to salvage the massive hard drives that back-up Cerebra on a regular basis, but the computer was not receiving (and thus not analyzing) any new data. This proved to be quite the monkey wrench in the gears of moving towards locating the child. Charles found himself constantly straining the formidable reach of his telepathy, but to no avail. This task, it would seem, required ground work.

"_My dearest Professor, please contact me immediately. There are some discoveries I am in dire need of sharing."_

The message was short and simple – so very un-Hank. If it was something interesting to the blue scientist, but he stayed short-winded about whatever message awaited, it must be _very _important. On the screen, around the edges of Beast's abounding face, Charles could see the hustle and bustle of the world's leading team of scientists working at a fevered pitch. Charles was proud of his two star pupils, Hank and Warren, adept ability to assemble this team in relative speed – amidst the great turmoil of the Decimation that rocked many other minds into a numb sort of demotivation. In the background he could see Dr. Rao huddled over a series of test tubes and next to her Nemesis and Jeffries seemed to be in a rather heated debate.

It was quite a sight , but Charles didn't know whether to be intrigued or concerned. The time stamp checked the message as being sent around 6:15 that evening. Three hours was already far too long to keep Beast waiting. Besides, Charles had no desire to send any X-Men out on a wild goose chase without getting his lead scientist's opinion on the situation.

With a few dept keystrokes, Charles brought up the vid-chat screen and hailed Beast. "Hank, are you there?"

After only a few short moments of white-noise filled silence, the familiar face of blue fur materialized before him._ "Professor! So good to hear from you."_

"Hank, you mentioned an interesting discovery."

"_Oh, yes." _Hank's massive hands patted along his pristine white lab coat, searching. In a moment, his hand retrieved his trademark spectacles, placing them in the wide brim of his nose as he continued._ "As you know I've been streaming the information on the occurrence you were able to save from Cerebra's minor meltdown to the labs of the X-Club." _

Charles could hear the click of Hank's long, dulled claws against the plastic of his keyboard as Beast's eyes darted slightly to the left of the camera – apparently bringing up some document to glance over as he spoke._ "When we first hatched this plan to stay on alert, eyes and ears open for a possible mutant birth, I had been focused on the genetic essence of the hypothetical child. I have the inventory of changes made here, for reference. We had our sensors re-calibrated – along with the algorithms for Cerebra's energy signature processing functions - set to alert us if any human born with the X-factor in their DNA should come into being. It seems our calibrations have forced us into only seeing half of the story. There have always been a percentage of the baseline population that has a dormant X-gene."_

"Of course, Hank. Cerebra usually only picks up on the brainwaves of mutants after their mutation has manifested to the point where it effects there mental signatures."

"_Yes, and Wanda's devestation of our great people didn't lie in the de-powering of mutants, but because she managed to wipe the X-gene clean out of humanity."_

"Which is precisely why we had to change Cerebra's protocols in order to detect a mutant infant. Not only for the usual reasons - the child's mutation would most likely not manifest until puberty – but also to focus her power. An uncatalogued X-gene would stand out much easier than an instance of a mutanagenic power signature."

"_Precisely!" _Blue pads slapped together in a muffled clap of intellectual joy._ "Alas, my dear friend, that is exactly the issue, Charles. We set our sights far too low. The X-Men, the harbingers of hope for mutantkind, didn't hope nearly enough."_

"Hank, I appreciate your excitement regarding the issue, but what are you talking about?" The Professor's eyes narrowed, searching Hank's face for an emotion that might make more sense then scientific ramblings. "What does your news have to do with reprogramming Cerebra?"

"_Well, we assumed part of Cerebra's untimely downfall rested in those tinkerings – perhaps she was overwhelmed by the sudden change in sensitivity levels she was forced to operate under, or we made a slight misstep in our reprogramming." _Hank glanced once again to the readouts on his screen, double and triple checking his facts before he dare speak them aloud to the Professor._ "Alas, we were astoundingly incorrect in our assumption. I've spent quite a few restless hours deciphering the information Cerebra was able to record before her demise. She shut down not because of changed parameters but because of sheer psionic overload."_

Hank stopped there, allowing himself a moment to quell the storm brewing in his mind. His glasses left his face and found their way to his mouth, a tell-tale sign that Charles knew meant to sit up and pay attention – it would be interesting._ "Charles, the child's mutation manifested at birth. And if I'm reading this right – the baby is quite possibly – from birth – Omega level."_

* * *

The night air was quiet around the Mansion. It was a rare occurrence that Sentinel Squad O*N*E would relish in. Just as his eyes began to droop, though, a bright red alert light began to flash and illuminate the small cabin, calling Jacob Slayton to attention. No alarms were ringing, which he was thankful for, but he couldn't put off running a quick diagnostics. Since their tour of duty on the outside lawns of the X-Men's home, barely a day of peace has gone by for their happy band of Sentinels. Jake couldn't miss getting the jump on a threat.

"O*N*E Command, this is Recon Sentinel, do you copy?"

"_Copy. What's your status?"_

"I'm picking up a lot of strange interference around the mansion. Requesting orders."

"_Is the interference outbound."_

Jake glanced again at his diagnostics read-out. "Negative, General Reyes. Inbound. Advise."

"_Set me up a stream and we'll monitor the activity remotely. Cooper can deal with it in the morning."_

"Copy." With a few strokes, Jake quickly set up the feed to HQ and set his head comfortably – or as comfortably as possible in the cramped cockpit - back against his headrest. He was more than happy to let the big wigs handle this one.


	7. With Bated Breath

A/N: This chapter didn't really shape up the way I expected it to, but I had fun with it. Hope you enjoy. Also, thank you to the (slightly less than) handful of you that have taken to the time to review. It is much appreciated.

**Chapter 6: **With Bated Breath

Charles Xavier was a master at chess, in the days when he still had the time to partake in the activity – and the days when he could scrounge up a willing partner. You would think living a life surrounded by so many former (and occasionally current) members of the Hellfire club would award him with a wider selection of opponents – or perhaps they just didn't understand the reference to their namesakes. It was a sad yet likely possibility.

And as in all things, much to Charles' own chagrin, the problems before him splayed out on the landscape of his mind as a chess board caught mid-game. Even without truly knowing who exactly his opponent was, Charles could fill in the blanks by categorizing their moves into chess strategy. As always, he was on the defensive. The powers at be were aggressive this round, perhaps a Ruy Lopez, or even the dreaded Latvian Gambit. Charles had played this game countless times – his Dream versus the universe's imposing idea of Fate. He knew this wasn't a game, though, marble pieces on an oak board were just avatars for the flesh and blood upon the battlefield - which is why he always played his game cautiously – a Sicilian Defense. What's worse, he neither played with his own blood nor those of strangers – the two extremes would be far easier to navigate – but instead Charles found himself stuck in an uncompromisable middle-ground – the blood of the one's he loved. He could afford neither the nonchalance of a detached military general nor the zeal of a martyr – only the caution of a concerned father.

Charles' queen – Jean - was dead and though her replacement had held the title – White Queen – for quite some time, he didn't trust her loyalty to the game he was playing. His king – Scott - was safe and sound but unwilling to cooperate – and Charles was not yet willing to use him. His most trusted knight – Logan – couldn't be moved yet – the act far too aggressive this early on in the game. Although the thought raised an involuntary shudder – was he becoming so lost to the game that he thought of his pupils so pragmatically? - the rest of his pieces - from bishop to pawn – simply were not up to the task. It was his rook – the piece so easily ignored and forgotten by both opponent and teammate – the solid tower standing faithfully throughout the dark night – so seemingly invalid – that Charles craved. It's usefulness was something the professor held close to his chest, so close that even Scott had no grasp on the idea of the man's true worth to the team – willing to do those things neither the King nor Gamemaster could sully their hands with yet so desperately needed to be done. Alas, his trusted rook had been taken from him, not by an opponent but sacrificed by both Charles and his X-Men, discarded as the useless guise the man spent his life trying to perpetuate.

It was with a heavy sigh that Charles cursed himself for sending Hank away so quickly – surely if the man were still here they would have had Cerebra operational again. Without it, there was no real way Charles could gather his lost piece. He could only hope their one time rapport could bridge the distance. He closed his eyes and knit his brows in concentration, even as the cynical voice in the back of his head chided him – even on the world's leading telepath's best day, he could dream of breaking his target's mental shields – but he pressed on, expanding his mind and reaching out with his telepathic voice.

_Remy, are you out there?_

* * *

Some people were _tres, tres naif_. _Non,_ if what he was seeing was correct, this went beyond naive. Sometimes the world's most courageous heroes can be just plain stupid. How long had it been since his last break in? 3 years. In _three years_ these _putain conards_ hadn't updated their security? If you sprint too hard towards your goal, you'll trip on your own feet. These fools wrote the book on tripping over their own feet.

Which, he supposed, was part of why he was here - suspended upside down, twisted into something resembling a human pretzel, back arched inches away from an infrared laser, all while attempting to successfully dismount himself from the stainless steel air-duct system he had spent the better part of an hour navigating – some people needed to be saved from themselves.

Not to make himself out to be a saint – he was here for devious reasons. Of course he had himself convinced that, yes, in the long run the ends will justify the means – his actions tonight would eventually lead to a sort of salvation – but right now, in this moment, they were merely _la marque_, his victims.

Remy LeBeau, safely one solid ground once again, allowed himself a moment to collect himself – catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow. Sure, the security was breakable – mentally his job was cake, just going through the motions of a pinch he'd had memorized for years – but it wasn't exactly _easy_.

With both hands and both feet, Remy couldn't count the number of bank-breaking jobs were offered to the Guilds on a regular basis to get something into or out of the legendary X-Mansion. Those contracts were considered "untouchable." They were too high-profile and high-risk for any Guildmaster to approve. The only thieves stupid enough to risk a job like this knew they didn't have the talent necessary to pull it off. By the time you got good enough to make a run at it, you would have wised up and realized when something was more work – and more risk – than it was worth.

First off, rumor had it that a _certain _world renowned Master Thief had beefed up their security system on their behalf. Second, every person you might happen across once inside (if you're lucky enough to make it that far) would be more dangerous than any army of armed guards you'd encounter in the world's most well-funded museums. Thirdly (and the definitive final nail in the coffin for any rational thief), _this_ mansion's owner happened to be a telepath who could sense you coming, your intentions and your exact target miles before you touched down on the grounds of the estate. Fortunately for _Monsieur LeBeau, _rational wasn't a very appropriate adjective. Of course, being immune to the probings of a telepath, knowing every inhabitant of the house's precise strengths and weaknesses and happening to be the thief responsible for the frighteningly impenetrable security system helped Remy's situation out a great deal as well.

At this time of night, there were select few X-Men awake on the mansion grounds. He had it on good authority – his own – that Rogue's team were cooped up in Mystique's old Mississippi stomping grounds and Stormy and her crew had been shacking up with the Fantastic Four. Bish had been pulling double duty with Xavier and the Feds, so he was elsewhere occupied at the moment – a fact Remy thanked his guardian angel for – the man was as steadfast in his nightly security detail as Summer's was in his quest for self-righteousness. That left the Wolverine as his only true obstacle. _Or should I say, the only obstacle left for anyone but moi._

Remy paused before finally entering a sub-basement – his first destination on the interior of the mansion – producing a vial from one of the many pockets that lined the legs of his simple, black work-gear. He delicately applied the rather unpleasant aroma to himself like the world's most expensive cologne. The substance was a mish-mash of sweat, the Professor's aftershave, Scott's favorite brand of antiperspirant and Emma's regular perfume. The resident hound would smell nothing more than the regular going-ons of X-Man life. Selling this stuff on the black market would fetch a pretty penny to the right person.

Regardless, Gambit had no need of ill-gotten funds and even less need of an easily broken vial on his person – something that could very reasonably break and release an overly potent scent in the air that just _begged_ to be investigated. Oh well, the small fortune could go to whoever happened to next clean this obscure little hallway in the recesses of the mansions fourth sub-basement and find Remy's little present – Lord knew cleaning this place was probably a thankless job anyway. He surely would never have volunteered for it.

Getting in was the easy part, though. Getting what he needed was another story entirely.

* * *

With a sigh that was equal part exhaustion and frustration, Charles gave up his vain attempts at contacting Gambit and turned his attention to a Christmas gift he had held dear for a number of years.

Hank had built him a chess board. The ebony board was inlaid with a black and white playing field to match the hand carved marble pieces and sat atop a simple but elegant oak box. With all things Hank, though, there was more than met the eye. Within the oak box lay an advanced AI system that mapped out and adapted to an individual's playing style. After compiling enough information, the AI could recreate a virtual strategy catered to the player – Charles could call up a simulation of any of his previous opponents.

With a soft mental push, a virtual set of black pieces flickered to life. As the absent man's name might suggest, the simulacrum of Charles' opponent opened things off with the King's Gambit.

* * *

Remy had pulled some strings with the New York Guild – a fact neither he nor the NY Guildmaster was terribly pleased about. Alas, four covert meetings, three angry phone calls from New Orleans and one suitcase full of cash later, he had two reliable surveillance men watching both the roads and the skies around Westchester. According to their intel, resident physician Hank McCoy had taken leave from the mansion yesterday. Things, for once in his life, seemed to be going Remy LeBeau's way. As much as he appreciated the masterwork of technology Cerebra was, Remy was on a tight schedule that didn't permit a quick round of self-taught telepathy. Hank, like himself, was limited to a keyboard. Remy could deal with that.

With his destination in mind, Remy's feet went on autopilot through the winding maze of sub-basements that made the foundation of the mansion. As he traveled on, his apprehension grew. A general rule of thumb on these grounds were the father below the surface you were, the weaker security was. He supposed the thought behind it was that you'd have to go through the tighter defenses on the ground level in order to get down here anyway. Plus, security was used to fending off all out, guns blazing attacks more than silent infiltration. Too bad for the X-Men that a well-trained thief knew the endless values of backdoors.

Crouching now in front of his destination, Henry McCoy's lab, Remy began the painstaking process of both picking his way through the physical locks on the door and dismantling the electronic key-pad and alarm system that guarded Hank's haven. If memory served (which it of course did – one didn't get the Guild mark of Master by being forgetful) there was only five feet of concrete foundation and the air above his head separating him from the kitchen – the one place a sleepless X-Man might find themselves.

A satisfying click sounded the final tumbler standing between Remy and his goal. With a deep, steadying breath, he steeled his nerves before entering the lab. Tonight demanded perfection – something Gambit was never in short supply of.

* * *

Rachel Grey, for the life of her, couldn't sleep.

Could you blame her, though? A lot had very suddenly been thrust onto her plate recently. Not to mention the fact that it was only mid-afternoon in the Shi'ar Empire. If she were honest with her self though, jet lag had little to do with her current bout of insomnia.

A remnant, small as it may be, of the Phoenix Force had stayed with her. It called out constantly to the rest of itself, longing to be one again. Phoenix was manifesting itself. She knew it. She _felt _it. It was an internal longing – an emptiness in a part of her soul she hadn't realized she had - indescribable to someone who had never experienced it firsthand. Could she really believe that the first mutant birth since M-Day – an event which took place only hours after the Phoenix had dragged her back to Earth – had nothing to do with her? She would deny it to Scott and anyone else who had the gall to question her about it. She didn't _want_ it to have anything to do with her, but she couldn't lie to herself anymore.

She was connected somehow. She had no doubt about that, she just had no clue as to what to do about it all. The doubts that kept her from a peaceful slumber were whether or not the X-Men had any answers for her. She didn't think so and was somewhat happy about the fact. Her time with the Starjammers had shown her that she was not an X-Man for deeper reasons than her strained relationship with her father and her disgust with the _witch _Emma Frost. She didn't care to fight for the Dream.

She and her brother had both come from different futures where Xavier's Dream had failed. She had seen firsthand what the Dream had done to her uncle. So many that had seen bits and pieces of the reality she came from were convinced that the Dreams failure had lead to her dystopia. But was it the Dream's failure? It seemed to her a lot more likely that it was the Dreams inception. The fight for the Dream always escalated – raising the stakes past anything sustainable. The X-Men and their ardent fight had ensured that the Dream, no matter what, would fail. Too many lives had been lost, too many lines crossed. The fight would never end and, as admirable as it seemed, Rachel was growing weary of playing her part in it.

Rachel buried her face in her hands, elbows propped up on the marble counter top of the kitchen's bar, steaming cup of cocoa forgotten and rapidly cooling. Gods, she didn't know what to do. It all seemed so futile. She knew that a part of her loved fighting for the Shi'ar because it was _easy._ It was the first situation in her life since being transported to this reality where there was a definitive right and wrong. It was the first time she _knew _she was right. So what if she was running? Hadn't she earned the right to run every once in a while? Didn't they all deserve a little piece of self satisfaction and avoidance? Kitty got to play politician for a little while. Logan left whenever he damn well felt like it. Emma spent most of her life playing games with Shaw in the Hellfire Club. Even Scott ran away to Alaska and started a new life for a little while. Couldn't she just _enjoy_ running around with the Starjammers for now?

She couldn't stop the tears that burnt her eyes, begging to fall. By the time the sobs hit, she no longer cared about saving face. They were all happily asleep anyway. With the sobs came fatigue, and with fatigue came a fitful sleep of her own. She didn't stir – she had lost the energy to. She merely let gravity run its course and brought her head down to the cool counter top below her and let the darkness of sleep overtake her.

If Scott didn't like it, he could wake her up and send her to her room just like the daddy he always pretended to be.

* * *

Remy looked up, startled, from the cabinet he had just finished picking the lock on. It was the fourth one he had to dismantle. _Le bon docteur_ had a _tres, tres _strange filing system. Not alphabetical, nor numerical – it seemed Beast had been playing with classifying mutants based on budding sub-species. Had he time for curiosity, Gambit would have loved to discover where in the food chain Hank had placed him. He didn't.

The gentle tension in his temples that Remy had learned to recognize as a mind brushing up against his shields brought his search to an abrupt end. He found what he wanted – everything else could have just been icing on the cake. A swift stroke of CTRL + P had Hank's terminal silently (thankfully) printing out the DNA results and various information Cerebra had saved on those genes as Remy quickly and soundlessly repacked his equipment bag. Tonight his various picks for the locks, talcum powder for the lasers, retrofitted PDA for key codes, throwing knives for trouble and plethora of other daily used supplies were accompanies by two vials of mutant blood.

He couldn't help but smile to himself as he slinked his way through the silent halls of the sterile metal basement, adeptly retracing his path back to safety. Tonight had be a _tres facile_ and _tres benefique_ job. He made a mental note to start taking some of those untouchable contracts.

* * *

Dreams were strange things to telepaths. When a mind is in a constant state of both receiving and transmitting messages and information, the unconscious mind can't filter foreign information out of the picture as easy as the conscious mind can. The line that existed between one's own subconscious and that of another got very blurry at times. So when Charles woke with a start – roused from his sleep by visions of a white-skinned angel with the red eyes of a devil – he didn't quite know what to make it. It took him a moment to get his bearings – he had apparently drifted off turning a simulated game of chess between himself and his former pupil. In his awoken state, he felt no disturbance on the astral plane, felt no connection to the mind he had spent most of the evening trying to contact.

But then again, Charles wasn't exactly the type to dream of erstwhile friends.


	8. Homecomings

A/N: Sorry for the wait. Who has two thumbs and hasn't had internet for like a month, making it incredibly hard (i.e. impossible) to update in a timely manner? This guy. Oh yeah, with all my free time waiting to be able to upload this, I'm gonna start being one of those people that responds to their reviews.

**Helenxxx**: Thank you for your eloquence. I think you used higher vocab in your review than I've used in the story. I'm jealous. In regard to your "Dream" observation – I completely agree! Everyone makes the Professor such an idol – Scott the most out of all of them – so that when Charles is knocked from his pedestal people either forget the dream all together or head down a different path and just call it "the dream." I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks so. I try to use Rachel as a control subject – someone who never really considered the Professor anything much more than just a man.

**Wolvmbm**: Yeah, Osborn and Hammer are in control. It was a little more expressly stated in the first draft, but I didn't really think it added to the story so it got edited out. He might make a future appearance though... And as for Wolverine, I think I'm gonna have some fun with him at Scott's expense. One thing though – please take my adherence to the wider Marvelverse cannon with a grain of salt. I'm running off of memory here, and between the Civil War, M-Day, Messiah CompleX, Utopia, etc. it gets pretty crowded in my little head. Thank God I have the AU warning to save me.

**Ligeila**: Thank you so much for your kind words. And I won't let a pesky thing like reviews discourage me. I'm writing this cuz it's fun! And I'm sick of Remy getting the shaft in the new comics. Everyone will set him up in these really cool positions, and then forget about it 2 issues later. He's abandoned by the X-Men! Just kidding, they apparently got over it really easily. He's blind and now a fortune telling pre-cog. Just kidding, we had a mutant the whole time that could fix him. He's a Marauder! Just kidding, he changed his mind. Now he can turn back into Death! I'm not holding my breath on that one.

**BJ2**: Thank you. I understand your distaste for Emma. She originally was going to have a more important role, and she may end up with one in the future, but I discovered I apparently hate writing her as much as I hate reading about her.

**Kakashisnumber1fungirl**: Thank you for the review. It's very encouraging to here people out there actually enjoy this mess I'm making. It's mostly to just get these errant thoughts out of my head, but if people like it along the way, all the more reason to keep it up.

Now, on with the show...

* * *

**Chapter 7:** Homecomings

Three pinpricks of light were all that illuminated the shadow clad room – the only evidence of life within to the naked eye. Two small orbs of unnatural red hovered over the hot ember of orange. Eyes and a smoldering cigarette. Nathaniel Essex, though, wasn't the type of man – if he could still be called such – to need to aid of light to make out the presence in the room. Not only had his vision been scientifically enhanced numerous times throughout his century plus time on this Earth – Mr. Sinister had built this room, built the complex it resided in and hand picked the installations cluttering the small, former storage room's floors. He would know instinctively if something was amiss. He knew were all of his _property_ was – including the room's current inhabitant.

"It would do you well to start remembering that I do not tolerate smoking in my facilities. It would be rather _unpleasant_ for everyone involved if any harm came to my equipment." He didn't need to enunciate the threat underlying his words. He didn't underestimate the cognitive abilities of the thief like so many of his previous handlers did. His target knew well that he stood more to lose at the hands of a wrathful Sinister than he did with the highly combustible chemicals running through highly pressurized, steel-braided hosing that connected the various mechinations encroaching him.

"Like t' live on de wil' side, me."

With a thought, Essex increased the lighting in the room to a suitable level – one which he could easily read the occupant's face. He had spent what felt like a life time studying his most intriguing subject. Remy LeBeau was a master at manipulating communication – a fact many of his previous allies and adversaries alike tended to ignore. Facial quirks, body language, minute shifts in eye color were all as important as the words themselves.

As the room lightened, Sinister was not exactly surprised to see the object of Remy's interest – a featureless stainless steel container that vaguely resembled a cocoon. "I have no time for your sentimental distractions, LeBeau."

"Sentimental, _monseuir?"_ An eyebrow quirked in an expression of genuine confusion. The idea of being here for an emotional reason was so far out of left field it took Gambit a moment to get his bearings. Of course, he wasn't here randomly – nothing he did these days seemed to shine with the beauty of carefree chaos as they once did – but sentiment played no part in it._ "Non_. Dis just de only quiet room around dese parts dese days. Plus, a body got to admire de spoils o' his toils, _oui_?"

Sinister gladly ignored the man's rather skillful attempts at evasion. If Nathaniel Essex had still retained enough of his humanity left to be able to feel such a petty and inconsequential emotion as pride, he perhaps would pride himself on being the only person Remy LeBeau had encountered without the aid of telepathy to be able to refuse to get lost in the tangled web of conversation he wove. Of course, Sinister wasn't that type of man. "Have you made any progress with the books?"

Gambit let his eyes drift slowly into a sidelong regard of his mad scientist master. "You be de first t' know if'n I do, _homme_."

"I am struggling to remind myself of your purpose here, thief." The real struggle was choosing which indignation to be most frustrated by: the thief's constant evasions, his relentless use of mixed languages and the horrid accent that accompanied them, or his lack of results. "You have only recently returned to my fold – I had hoped you wouldn't outlive your usefulness so quickly."

"Picked y' up a _petit cadeau_ while I was out, _ami_." With a barely visible movement, a simple glass vial was withdrawn from the folds of the theif's leather duster and flipping end over end through the air, crossing the room to reach Sinister's deft hands.

The scientist took a moment to examine the red liquid contained within. There was a handwritting letter and number code scrawled across the glass that held no meaning to him, but he had no need to understand Dr. McCoy's labeling system. Sinister's computer system had been retrofitted from Apocalypse's ancient alien technology and would decode the DNA – that of a mutant, he could already tell as the blood called out to him – in mere seconds. Sometime he pitied Xavier and his charges – stuck using the outdated Cerebro system.

"You took this from Xavier?"

"_Oui_."

Sinister's gaze tore from the prospect in his hand and pinned his thief with laser like pin pricks of red light. Essex had seemed to regain control of LeBeau for the moment, but he had learned over the years that control very rarely equated to trust when it came to his Cajun former-protege. "And why were you not able to make any headway with the diaries?"

"Dey got de security backwards." As he spoke, Gambit straightened from his casual position on the cold, sterile metal table he had propped himself against. He paced in his signature lazy gait as he retrieved a cigarette from his coat and lit it with a glowing finger tip as it touch his lips. LeBeau was apparently slipping into – what he himself had dubbed, much to Sinister's chagrin – 'thief mode.' It was highly irritating. Sinister's eyes reduced to thin slits of red as a highly concentrated, condense blast of energy vaporized LeBeau's cigarette. Unperturbed, Remy merely retrieved and lit another in the same fashion. Old Sinny was getting predictable.

"Lab's easy – _mon professeur's_ bedroom? Tight like a vault." Gambit continued pacing silently for a moment, knowing he hadn't given Sinister a response the man would consider appropriate, hearing the silent question hanging in the air that Sinister didn't seem inclined to voice. Apparently _Monsieur _Essex wasn't in the mood for witty banter. "Y' got troves o' Marauders dese days – place is bustin' at de seems - complete wit' pent up aggression. Mebe time t' take dem off de leash, _non_?"

"I never thought someone as fond of the underhanded arts as you would suggest a direct confrontation – especially not with Xavier's flock. Perhaps time spent in Summers' Guard has diminished your covert abilities."

At this, Gambit shucked his teeth and waged a comically reprimanding finger. "Stealth don' look good on you, _homme_. 'Sides, if'n e'rybody else 'round here start wit' de breakin' 'n ent'rin', y' gon' steal my t'under."

* * *

The sensation was hard to hold onto despite his greatest efforts in the contrary. It was a sort of buzzing crackle, a faint electric hum. A ghost of a sound the couldn't exactly be heard and yet you knew it was there simply because it wasn't there before. A perfunctory search of his room – perhaps a television or computer monitor that hadn't properly powered down – left Charles with one conclusion and a moment if inward searching confirmed it. He _wasn't_ hearing it – he was feeling it. In fact, he located the buzz as residing somewhere just below the bone covering the area above and between the eyes. Being a telepath had many great advantages, one of which – with enough training and a high enough level of mutation – was being able to detect residual psionic trails left behind in the wake of energy a mind produced. The Professor recognized that this is what his brain was trying to tell him – there was a ghost trail of a mind out of place amongst the regular inhabitants of the mansion – only there wasn't a presence or a trail, only a hissing emptiness.

It was this lack of something that fueled his endeavor to the ladies' wing of the mansion's residential quarters. He had heard her thoughts as she roused herself from slumber that had carried over into the early afternoon. With his particular brand of eerily impeccable timing, Charles arrived a few feet from Rachel Grey's door just as she exited, her intentions pointing towards the kitchen for a breakfast she would do her best to disguise as brunch.

"Rachel. Care for some company?"

Rachel stifled her surprise at the Professor's intrusion on her supposedly stealthly reemergence into waking society. "Oh, good morn- I mean, afternoon."

It was as if, from her observation, the X-Men - the older ones especially - just seemed to assume that Charles would be there. Where _there_ was didn't matter – and it wasn't exactly like they expected him to be _everywhere_ either. They all had just seemed to stop being surprised whenever a bald head and a hoverchair waited for them around a hallway corner. The thought of it was more unnerving than the reality of Charles' little surprises. Time away had done a good job of cleaning Rachel's palate and now the flavor of the X-Men's nuances was suddenly more bitter. "I suppose it's your turn to give my debriefing now."

"Luckily for you, child, that is now Scott's department." Charles' smile was broad and welcoming – it even seemed to reach his words. This man was a very different Charles Xavier than she had met – and detested – in space. "I trust that if there is anything regarding your timely return to us that concerns me, he will gladly tell me."

Rachel eyes her companion suspiciously. She was not one to fall easily to the kind words of this old man. He had already fooled so many of her family. It would take more than a sweet tone and a smile to disarm her this morning. "There doesn't seem to be much of anything Daddy-Dearest does _gladly_ these days."

"That seems to be an unfortunate side effect of leadership, my dear."

"So, if you're not here to grill me, what do I owe the pleasure."

"I see you haven't lost your penchant for cutting to the chase." A wry smile displayed on Xavier's face. It was a quality she had apparently inherited from Scott. It was one of the Summers' traits he still appreciated. "Well then, I suppose I'm most interested today in your sleeping habits."

Rachel rolled her eyes and turned her back momentarily on the Professor. When she turned back a due amount of unconstrained annoyance was in her eyes. "What? Scott's in charge now so you're filling his old role – chastising people who sleep through Danger Room sessions?"

Charles' smile held steady – it did nothing to ebb her irritation. "It is not your late rising that I'm asking about, but rather your late retiring. You were awake at a very late hour last night, Rachel."

"And I'm guessing since you know that you were, too, Professor. I hope this isn't a lecture." She paused to point first at herself and the Charles. "Pot. Kettle."

"No, no. I'm not up to anything quite so official. I was merely wondering if you could answer a question for me." As he spoke, Charles changed his direction down towards the hallway he had emerged from. Much to her own chagrin, Rachel found herself following suit. The man had a mysterious way of coaxing you into following his unspoken orders. "While you were up last night, did you happen to notice anything amiss?"

"Nothing besides the mansion's lack of midnight snacks."

Charles paused to turn a thoughtful look on his companion. "Rachel, forgive me if you are already aware – the last thing I want to come across as is condescending – but are you aware of all the caveats involved in your mutation?"

"My mutation?" Rachel was genuinely confused by the sudden change of direction of Charles' questions. Despite herself, she was suddenly interested.

"Yes. You are an extremely high level telepath and if your ancestry is anything to go on, I'm quite sure you possess far more potential that you are already exhibiting." Belying his serious subject matter, Charles spoke casually as he resumed his trek through the mansion hallways. "As far as what you may one day develop into, you will surely surpass me in telepathy – perhaps even rival the abilities your mother exhibited. Mutations like ours work a bit differently than most."

He traveled on silently for a moment and Rachel obliged. A few years ago, she perhaps would have been offended at his assumption that she needed this mini-lecture – but that young, brash know-it-all seemed like a different person to her these days. She had seen too much, experienced too much and met too many to still live in the delusion that she knew the way the universe worked.

"Mutations are controlled by the mind – their potential often times can not be fully realized until the mutant's mind can develop it. Our mutations, though, _are_ our minds. Sometimes they are much more active than we are cognitively aware."

"What does this have to do with my midnight snack?" As if on cue, a pang in her stomach reminded Rachel of her initial reason for venturing out of her room. She was relieved to realize the kitchen seemed to be Charles' destination. This should make for interesting breakfast conversation.

His look turned thoughtful again, but he was mindful to keep his internal self-reprimand from his face. His continued failures as a leader - and above all else a protector - of his students were not Rachel's concern. "I cannot shake the feeling that something took place last night that I needed to know about." In a moment, the introspective quality to Charles' words had evaporated, leaving once again the voice of an attentive school master. "Even if your conscious mind didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, your telepathy may have automatically picked it up. With your permission – and with supervision if you request – I would like to scan you for any information you may have accidentally or subconsciously obtained."

"Supervision? Who am I gonna ask that would even be able to tell if you were up to something – and I don't know why you would be – Emma? I'd rather let you lobotomize me."

Relief washed over him with a pleasant smile that actually reached the older man's eyes. "Thank you, Rachel."


	9. Sinister Rouge

A/N: This is a short one just to keep the updates coming, but finally some action on the horizon...

**Chapter 8**: Sinister Rouge

Gambit lay sprawled haphazardly across the couch in what had become something of a common area in Mr. Sinister's Super Secret Marauder Lair. As would be expected of any premise constructed by the great Nathaniel Essex, there was no actual common area anywhere in the massive underground construct. It was actually the entryway to the armory. This room just happened to have the least amount of sensitive equipment and was refreshingly devoid of any creepy experiments. The existence of a couch and a coffee table, much to Sinister's chagrin, was thanks to Remy. He had "obtained" them one way or another and moved them in without old Sinny's permission – just like he had obtained the last three sets of couches and tables that Sinister had promptly removed.

The only other fixtures of the room were a small arms locker – for ease of access without having to gain entry into the giant weapons vault in case of emergency – and a computer terminal – at which Scalphunter was currently working diligently.

Gambit withdrew a pack of cards to toy with to work of some budding tension. He could hear – or feel, he wasn't exactly sure which, which was in and of itself rather disturbing – Sinister approaching. Essex poking his head out for his subordinates to see this early in the day very rarely equated to pleasure for Remy.

"Scalphunter – what progress have you made?"

Remy quirked an eyebrow and let his head dangle off the edge of the couch while he remained lounged. In an upside down gaze, he took in the form of Scalphunter slowly letting the tension drain from his shoulders, his once frantic work slowed to a few final keystrokes. "You mean dat t'ings for more den solitare?"

Greycrow turned a sharp, assassin's eye on LeBeau. "If you get a virus on this thing, I'll kill you."

A strangled, low gurgle cut through the air. Sinister didn't like to be ignored and as far as Remy could tell, the man just _growled _to get their attention. A crazy mad scientist growl, sure – slightly less intimidating than a Wolverine I'm About To Kill You growl – but a growl nonetheless. "Scalphunter."

Without turning from the terminal, the most obedient of the Marauders responded. "Malice is ready to go active."

The smile that crossed Remy's lips could only be described as dangerous. "Den let de games begin."

* * *

Scott's footfalls were heavy and fast as his legs worked their way up from the sub-basement. It seemed as though, despite his full leadership of the school and his adamant refusal to let Charles in on in the inner workings of the team, there were still a great number of things going on in his Grey Malkin Lane residence of which he was still unaware. This was going beyond simple annoyance or frustration. Cyclops was officially getting angry.

Without so much as a courtesy knock, Scott burst unannounced into Charles' quarters. He was given pause, though, at the sight that greeted him. Rachel laid comfortably on the antique, brown leather couch that occupied the corner of the room with Professor Xavier sitting behind her in his "casual" wheelchair – a plain metal thing that used regular, non-Shiar technology to propel itself electronically. His fingers remained lightly on her temples even as Charles opened his eyes and looked to Scott in greeting.

"Scott, just the person I wanted to speak with. I -"

Charles was quickly silenced as Scott's hand cut through the air, demanding attention onto himself. His anger was bordering on rage. Not only was Charles still apparently arranging things for _his_ team to take care of behind his back, he was also probing _his_ daughter without his authorization.

"I don't want to hear it, Charles." He had to force himself to pause and collect himself. Now was no time to be emotional and weak. Angry Scott forced himself to give way to determined Cyclops. "Where is Hank and why is his lab locked?"

"Hank is with the X-Club and I imagine he locked his door when he left, though honestly I'm surprised it is still in that condition." That smile - that knowing, lying smile that Scott had been witness to for the majority of his life – crept into Xavier's features and it drove Scott mad.

Splitting up his team without his knowledge? This was going beyond the petty squabbles over control of the X-Men. Regardless of how Charles felt about Scott's leadership, certain things just should not be done. The man was now officially endangering not only Scott's operations within the teams, but possibly endangering the mansion's safety. Sending Beast off without Scott's knowledge while three sentinels were parked in his front lawn, while O*N*E was breathing down his neck was crossing a line

"Well, he needs to be here. We -"

"Yes, Scott." Charles could see where this was going and quickly cut Scott off. Part of the reason Scott had been hand picked by Xavier to be his successor was the young man's uncanny ability to see past his own emotions and focus on the task at hand – to focus on the Dream. Unfortunately, Charles also knew the man was not immune to belligerence when pushed to it. Though Charles had never been the subject of Scott's aggression in this manner until now, he had seen it before. When he was still a young teen struggling with his feelings for Jean, Scott had been prone to outbursts at her – not knowing how to balance his position as her field leader with his growing attachment and subsequent over protection of her. When Logan had first come to the mansion, Scott would frequently be blinded by his distaste for the man to the point where he would flat out refuse the older man's input into the team just because, in Scott's mind, any idea produced by a feral beast could not be trusted. Now, it seemed, was Charles' turn. But this would be an issue dealt with directly and privately – not with Rachel as an audience. The best tactic was to realign Scott's focus – get his eyes set back on the matter at hand.

"That is precisely what I wanted to speak with you about. We need Hank's assistance and we need it sooner than later. I think it would behoove us to send the Blackbird to retrieve both him and the rest of the science team immediately."

Scott suddenly became introspective. He was disarming the bomb of anger building in his sternum and shifting back into leadership mode. Without realizing, he simply nodded – a good soldier following an order – and turned to leave, surely to have someone go retrieve Beast. When he reached the door, however, he snapped back around and pinned Charles with a visor-hidden stare. After many years of dealing with the man, Xavier could interpret the minute tensing of the skin around his eyes – just out of the visor's reach – as confusion. "Wait, why are you surprised his door's still locked?"

"We had an intruder last night, and I fear Dr. McCoy's lab was his target."

* * *

Bobby looked around the rag-tag bunch assembled in Mystique's home. It was... eerie being on Rogue's team. He hadn't kept his previous feelings for Rogue all those years ago much of a secret. And now, having spent more time with Mystique than Robert Drake would have ever _believed _possible – Bobby couldn't deny the strangeness of the situation. He had thought a brief respite back home in Salem might help clear his head, but Rachel saw to _that_ never happening. He was surprised that he was glad to be back.

He glanced around the sparse bodies strewn comfortably around the living room. The team felt lacking. Cannonball and Cable were running a mission on Scott's request somewhere in Providence. Mystique didn't seem to be present, but Bobby assumed she was upstairs tending to Rogue. That left Bobby's current lounging buddies as Lady Mastermind – daughter of long standing evil bastard Jason Wyngarde, Karima Shapander – renegade Omega Sentinel - and Sabertooth – former Marauder and all around bad-seed. Iceman, who usually considered himself one of the less-controlled, wild X-Men, suddenly felt like goodie-two-shoes.

He sat himself down on a plush, baby blue armchair that matched the long, comfortable looking couch that Creed and Mastermind shared. From his position, he got a good view of Karima. She was checking her e-mail, which was just plain stupid to Bobby. Operation: Zero Tolerance had the financial backing and the technology to implant little doo-hickies in people's brains that could sense mutant presence and then, from the inside out, in a matter of minutes turn that living, breathing, normal _person_ into a fully functional, deadly _sentinel_ - and they couldn't afford to install some WiFi so their hi-tech robos didn't have to sit around other people's houses checking their e-mail? Shouldn't they just, like, beam the messages straight to their brains? What a waste of evil ingenuity.

"So... What'd I miss?"

Creed's only response was a sneer accompanied by a snarl. Wyngrade, though, appeared slightly more talkative. "Oh, you know – the usual. Rogue and Mystique arguing. Us trying to find out what our next assignment is, only to be ignored by Rogue and Mystique arguing. Us trying to order dinner, deciding between pizza and Chinese, which lead to even more Rogue and Mystique arguing."

"So, I didn't miss anything." With that, Bobby got up and decided to do some official investigating – specifically, to search out what they did end up deciding on eating and if their were any leftovers.

Creed watched him go with a look of disdain – things had been slightly more tolerable when the Ice Twerp was gone. Less obnoxious banter. He closed his eyes tight and absently began extending and retracting his claws. All this sitting was not what he signed up for. Feral and bored often made for a bad combination.

With both of their attentions elsewhere, neither Bobby nor Sabertooth notice the sudden and short lived green glow emminate from the computer Karima sat at and the jolt that wracked her body immediately after. Lady Mastermind noticed, though, and simply smiled.

Apparently, the leftovers were well guarded. As soon as Bobby opened the refrigerator door, the house's security system stared blaring. After the moment it took him to realize how ridiculous that notion was, Bobby spun around in time to see Sabertooth spring to his feet.

"I sense no intruders." Karima's voice had an unmistakeable mechanical quality. Bobby took it to mean that she had turned on (could she just turn it on and off?) whatever creepy sentinel technology sat somewhere in the back of her head. Nine times out of ten, that usually meant she was readying for a fight - despite her words.

Bobby quickly iced up and darted to the nearest window, scanning the proximity of the house. "I don't see anything."

Unconsciously, Creed's hackles began to raise as his deadly sharp nails began to elongate. Bobby swallowed passed the sudden dryness in his throat as he watched the feral sometimes-man-sometimes-beast. He really wasn't prepared to have to subdue Creed this early on in the day. He watched the man warily, sizing him up – but something seemed off. Creed's eyes darted about the room, sniffing the air wildly – almost _frantically. _Victor Creed never did _anything_ frantically. Well, at least nothing that didn't involve Wolverine. It was then that Bobby realized that, despite the claws and the tense stance, nothing about Sabertooth seemed predatory. Creed wasn't a beast about to pounce; he was a cat raising his hackles to appear bigger – to ward off an enemy.

The normally cold killer's veneer seemed to crack. Creed sniffed the air again. "They're here."

A/N: You may notice Sabertooth is still around with Rogue's team for this. I thought that whole storyline about Hell, magical swords and Sabertooth begging Wolverine to kill him was complete BS, so I'm pretending it didn't happen.


	10. A House of Cards

A/N: I know it's been a LONG time since there was an update. And I know this is super short. Unfortunately, I'm a big picture kind of guy. I've got pages upon pages of story that will happen down the road, but I have total writer's block on how to get from A to B. Or rather, I have writer's block on how to get from A to B in a decently interesting fashion that isn't just a direct re-write of what happened in the comics. But the next chapter should come quick – most of it's written (as it was supposed to be part of this one). I'm just cutting myself off here for pacing purposes.

This is really the first time I'm treading on territory that was explicit in the comics. I'm taking a lot of liberties with it (I'm loving my AU safety net), but let me give the disclaimer that a fair amount of dialogue is ripped straight from Marvel. Sorry.

Big thank you to **kitsuK8 **for being the only person to review my last chapter. A little love is still better than none at all.

**Chapter 9:** A House of Cards

"Who's here?" Bobby's confusion was rapidly giving way to fright. Invisible enemies? It gave a new meaning to the term "fear of the unknown."

"You mean my friends?" It was then that Bobby noticed Mastermind hadn't so much as twitched at the alarm. In the face of an impending attack, Regan Wyngarde remained casually on the couch she was sharing with Creed, legs crossed and a coy smile playing at the edges of her mouth. He could hear Scott in his head, chewing him out for letting his guard down.

At Lady Mastermind's command, five bodies seemed to materialize out of thin air. A still shimmering specter in the shape of a tall, heavily muscled man spoke - its voice a low, dirt-filled gravel of a sound. "Long time no see, X-Men."

Victor Creed was considered by many to be a man without fear, and rightfully so. After a dozen or so decades of murder and mayhem without a single scar to show for it, tales of fear and terror might as well be fiction. No scars, though, didn't always mean no wounds. Some were older than time, still festering just below the surface waiting for that one, well-timed swing of a sword, well-place shot of a gun to burst open the precarious seal confining an ocean of horror. Lady Mastermind's seeming betrayal had been that blow, but unfortunately for her a man unaccustomed to fear didn't react the way a fearful man should. There were no tremors, no tears – only razor sharp claws and eyes that gave a frightening promise of bloodshed.

When Sabertooth found his voice, it had dropped to an octave so low it was a barely audible growl. "Marauders."

In an instant, the quiet and downright boring scene Bobby Drake had come "home" to evaporated under the heat of barely controlled chaos. The sudden shift left him stunned. He vaguely recognized Creed's command to get off his ass, but something about the juxtaposition of the ice cold leftovers he had planned on reheating still in his hand and Harpoon's expertly thrown shuriken speeding with deadly accuracy towards his face left Bobby's ability to process the current situation lacking. All that ended in an instance, though, as the reality of the situation came crashing down on him, ushered in by a single sound.

There was a gunshot upstairs.

* * *

This was too easy. It seemed stubborn was a family trait, especially in the males. It would be interesting to see who would be more embarrassed, father or son, when they finally realized just how strikingly similar they were. Arguing with a sentient computer? There were a lot of people you could out maneuver in a battle of wills, but this game was fixed.

_NEGATIVE. PROVIDENCE ISLAND. LOCATION 120 DEGREES NORTH 1__65 DEGREES WEST. CURRENT POPULATION – TWO._

"_Bonjour, mon ami_. Pick a card, my friend. For old time's sake."

Cable's eyes snapped to the shadowed recesses of rubble behind him, instantly recognizing the telltale Creole drawl. Squinting, he couldn't quite make out a figure in the darkness, but it wasn't necessary. He found himself under the scrutiny of the red, glowing eyes of the White Devil.

"LeBeau?" The Cajun had ceased to be on Nathan's radar since the Arcadian's run-in with Apocalypse. No one had seen hide nor hair of the X-Man turned Horseman – and Apocalypse's minions tended to have fairly short life spans after their master met his defeat.

"Don' sound so shocked, _mon brave_. I'm offended - you t'ink I kick de bucket already?" The accented voice trailed off as a figure emerged from the shadows – a sight Cable was rather surprised to see. Before him stood Gambit – not Death. If he had his information correct, it had taken Angel some years and quite a bit of work to revert back to his original form. "Or is it the new duds? Y' know, dey say dere more joy in Heaven for de sinner dat repent, Cable"

Warning bells were ringing in Nathan's mind. Gambit should not have had the means to rid himself of Apocalypse's tampering so quickly. The thief wasn't exactly known for his experience in the field of genetics. And the accent just seemed… forced. And just what in the Hell was he doing on Providence without being seen by Cannonball to boot? Providence was completely surrounded by water with no way in or out save for plane or boat.

This didn't add up.

Cable's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "How did you manage that, exactly?"

"Wit' a little help from my friends." With a shrug of his shoulders, Remy turned and started walking. It was a play at disinterest. A convincing play for most, but Nathan saw it for what it was. The Cajun was circling him like the predator he did his damnedest to pretend not to be. "Cable, I didn' come here t' fight you. Just wanna run a _petite_ question by dat computer o' yours."

The strategist in Cable instantly began process the new information. He wasn't Gambit's target. Remy was after Professor and Cable was just collateral damage. This could get interesting.

Content to play along for the time being, Nathan took the bait. "About what?"

"Not'ing important. Just de time." Another shrug, equally disinterested. Remy let the moment stretch for a moment, making a show at inspecting his nails. He always did have a flare for the dramatic. "My friends, dey t'ink it about one minute before dawn."

* * *

Shiro watched his partner from a low bluff in the distance. Remy had insisted that he kept his distance. "Watching for trouble" was the phrasing the Cajun had chosen. An obvious cover. They were on a remote, uninhabited island that had long ceased to be of concern to any type of authority group. Cable's lone ally close enough to come to his aid had taken his watch to the air – circling wide arcs around the island, miles off the coast, in the X-Men's Blackbird. His next pass into a visible area wasn't for another 20 minutes and this was a quick, in and out operation. Besides, Sunfire was confident that the two X-Men wouldn't stand a chance against them.

The Cajun was often a mystery – though in this instance Shiro suspected his actions would only be considered strange if you believed the guise Remy put forth. Sinister believed his first and foremost Marauder to be of great use in espionage but fairly incompetent on the battlefield – hence Sunfire's required involvement in the current mission. Cable would underestimate Gambit, believing him to be cocky and unprepared. Both were shortsighted and lacking in honor. Shiro, though, was wired differently.

Gambit considered Nathan Summers a former comrade in arms and therefore his duty to dispose of.

* * *

"What are you-?" Cable cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head and a cock of his rifle. He couldn't let Gambit catch a glimpse at the recognition in his eyes. "It doesn't matter. I don't have time for your games, Gambit."

"No time f' games, _mon ami_?" The falsely amicable smile Remy held quickly turned malicious as the brace of cards in his hand that Nathan had failed to notice slowly began to glow a lurid pink. "Not even a card trick?"

* * *

Scott's mind was still going over his earlier encounter with the Professor. It was infuriating, of course, but also somewhat confusing. Ever since the incident with Cerebro, the Professor had been acting rather strange. Rachel only seemed to be exasperating the situation. What he wouldn't give for looser morals at the moment – the kind that would give him no qualms about asking Emma to probe the man. Of course, that was assuming she _could_. He had known personally – and in some cases intimately – the top three telepaths in the world, and occasionally the lines dividing their prowess blurred. He had witnessed the Phoenix down right over power the Professor, and Emma had succeeded in controlling Scott's powers where both Xavier and Jean had failed. Logically, that should put her at the top of the list, shouldn't it? It was ironic to Scott – or perhaps _convenient_ - that telepaths were the only ones that could truly understand all the ins and outs of their own powers.

His train of thought was cut off rather abruptly when his communicator began its shrill alert. Rogue's team was taking it easy. Cable was on a routine information gathering run in Providence. The only mission with potential trouble was the reacquisition of Beast and the mobile Cerebro. How appropriate that something the Professor was involved with would bring yet another headache.

Steeling himself for whatever bad news Xavier had, Scott activated his communicator. "Cyclops."

_Scott! Come in! Gold Team needs extraction – NOW!_

Scott wasted no time on confusion, jumping straight to business at the frantic tone of his friend's voice. "Bobby? What's wrong?"

_It was an ambush, Scott. We were completely blindsided. You need to get us out of here!_

"Ambush?" _What_ was an ambush? For all intents and purposes, Bobby and the rest of Rogue's team were on leave. In Mississippi of all places. "What are you talking about, Bobby?"

_The Ma__rauders. Quick, Scott. They've shot Rogue._

* * *

Quick A/N: In case anyone's befuddled, the "Professor" in the scene with Cable is the AI that controls Providence. Marvel loves to be confusing like that.


End file.
